The Pugilist, the Detective, and the Doctor
by Eyebrows2
Summary: Sherlock Holmes accepts a foolish challenge from an old friend, encouraged by Watson's disapproval. The outcome may be particularly painful. Please read and review - it would make me very happy! I've tweaked it a little - bit more hurt, bit more comfort!
1. Chapter 1

**The Pugilist, the Promoter, the Detective, and the Doctor**

Prologue

This had been sincerely foolish, I reflected, as I slowly circled the enormous, muscular beast of a man in front of me, looking for, and failing to find, signs of weakness. I should have been too old to acquiesce with such a fatuous and juvenile challenge. It was all Watson's fault.

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_What has Sherlock Holmes got himself into here? _

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	2. Chapter 2

**The Pugilist, the Promoter, the Detective, and the Doctor**

Chapter 2

When I first moved to London, as an impecunious youth of nineteen, I had to find adjunctive means of making my living – I rapidly discovered consulting detection was not the most lucrative trade, and found myself all too often in confrontation with the battleship-frontage of my formidable landlady over the small issue of the rent. She had even whacked me over the shins with a warming pan on one occasion where I particularly enraged her, and with the misplaced chivalry of our age, I was unable to defend myself against her with apposite force. Mycroft was of course of the opinion that I should accept respectable employment suited to a gentleman of my birth and social standing, and confine my "hobby" of detection to my not very abundant leisure time. In horror at the notion of spending my days office-bound, paying homage and dancing at the beck and call of a superior whom I would doubtless consider inferior, I looked about me for less respectable but more tolerable means of turning a penny.

My first choice was the stage. I had trod the boards before, and found I could scrape together some little income by so doing. I even became sufficiently established to merit my (assumed) name appearing second on the billboards, much to Mycroft's rage and mortification when he eventually discovered me. It was during my brief acting career I met Nancy, chorus girl when we first worked together, but leading lady by the time my name was attracting fame thanks to my biographer, and of invaluable assistance to me in numerous covert investigations where a young couple are less conspicuous than any other combination of characters. A mischievous and audacious rogue, Nancy was not only able to almost cure me of misogyny (Watson's assessment of me as a cold and celibate calculating machine is not entirely accurate), but introduced me to another, still more disreputable, source of income – prize fighting. Her elder brother had been one of that profession's leading lights, and, as he neared retirement from pugilism, took to promoting instead. Having been treated to a display of my talent in that direction when an unwary patron attempted to accost Nancy in the rather insalubrious eatery we were frequenting, she recommended me to Jem. I became one of his early successes, establishing his reputation, and my own, for providing a good and bloody spectacle as I illegally bare-knuckle boxed my way to each purse. The connections I formed as an established dweller in this shadowy underworld would be of invaluable assistance later in my career. However, it was not a viable long-term prospect, and I confess to having a little too much vanity to not be disturbed in the deviation from the aquiline my nose adopted following a particularly belligerent bout. Copious quantities of brandy, followed by the suspiciously adept ministrations of Nancy and Jem, returned my nose to its original position, but could do nothing for the black eye, cut lip and abundant contusions with which my visage was endowed. My landlady was disgusted, and my client the next day looked so askance at my dissolute appearance that I almost lost the case. My resolution to throw in the towel was strengthened by my fledgling association with Inspector Lestrade and the expansion of my reputation – my profession was beginning to bear fruit. As I was now engaged on the side of the law, and profiting from it, it seemed best not to risk being exposed flouting it – there had been several close calls where our impromptu premises had been raided by the police, and it had been necessary to improvise an exit. Jem, now a rising star, and myself remained on excellent terms, as did Nancy and I. My ongoing association therefore meant I did not entirely drop the pastimes I had espoused previously, and I still occasionally participated in a bout as an amateur at Jem's invitation, or spent an evening as Horatio or Benvolio to amuse myself. Thence came the problem.

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	3. Chapter 3

**The Pugilist, the Promoter, the Detective, and the Doctor**

Chapter 3

When Watson arrived in my life, I was well on my way to the success I had hoped for. I was finally able to escape my horrible landlady, which felt at the time like the pinnacle of my existence. I exchanged her for the sublime Mrs Hudson, whose attempts to mother me, much as they rarely failed to irritate me, were a welcome substitute for a wielded warming pan. I felt an immediate liking for my new roommate, which is a rare occurrence for me. His woebegone air and shattered constitution were overlaid with a stoicism and consideration for others which I couldn't but admire. At first, I was merely careful not to disturb him, but my growing interest in his character led me to involve him in one of my cases. He seemed to revive like a watered plant in the interest the sinister little problem aroused in his breast. Insidiously, he has become an almost indispensable part of my life.

So I come to the present, where Dr Watson is a trusted companion to watch my back on my more dangerous undertakings. Despite involving Nancy in several of my surveillance projects, having a partner in my cases required adjustment. I have been willing to make such adjustments, but there is also a downside. I am beset from all sides by over-solicitous behaviour. Mrs Hudson has never quite learned to contain her urges to mother me, and Watson fusses like a mother hen. My use of cocaine has been a bone of contention for some time, and I have moderated my behaviour out of consideration for Watson's violent anxiety and disapproval regarding the drug. I avoid using it when he is present. I have, admittedly, reduced my consumption also, as, although I could never bring myself to confess it to him, I have rather a sincere respect for Watson's skills as a physician, and do find myself a little unnerved by the notion that I may eventually require, rather than desire, the stimulation, perhaps to the detriment of my intellect. This does not alter my standpoint that the man can be insufferably infuriating. It is also his intolerable lecturing which has led to me being in my current rather compromising position; stripped to the waist in a cold and inhospitable boxing ring, facing an opponent larger and more in condition than myself.

The situation arose when Jem called to our Baker Street lodging to "smoke a pipe and while away ver time of day wiv an ole friend, Sherry." This abominable moniker had been assigned to me by Jem in the early days of our acquaintance, when I was too insignificant a pup for my objections to be considered tenable. Watson had greeted this term of address with unbecoming hilarity when he first discoverd it, but he was accustomed to Jem by now. I noticed his Cockney accent had become far more pronounced in recent years, no doubt to enhance his standing as tough local character. I passed him the Persian slipper, and asked,

"So besides tobacco, and, I have no doubt, an offensively large measure of my excellent cognac which I can see you eying, what brings you here, Jem?"

"Does a man need n excuse ter see a cove what he's known as long as you n I've known each uvver?"

"In your case, absolutely. You strictly abjure any social calls which are not made in a tavern".

Jem rolled his eyes in comical dismay at Watson, who had been seated at the table reading a medical journal before our guest arrive. Watson returned the expression with a grin.

"You have come here in a dog-cart, specifically for the occasion..."

"...mud splashes again, is it, Sherry?"

"...with a program protruding from your pocket. Since you appear relaxed and at your ease, I do not anticipate any of your protégés are in need of my services. You have come to consult me regarding that program. Your slightly ingratiating manner, and your allusion to the good old times leads me to believe you wish for my services in the ring. That you have not now asked me for four years, and that you bear signs of recent prosperity, leads me to suspect this is quite a big event."

Jem shook his head, smiling disbelievably. "I'll never grow 'customed to these detecting starts, Sherry. You've second guessed me ev'ry move." He drew the program from his pocket, "I'm finking I'll turn respectable see – now vere's no need fer you ter snort – I've fronted a lot a legal fights recently, see – big names in ver game. I've got me eye on a venue off St. James's Street. I'm finkin' of openin' a training saloon, like old Gen'leman Jackson's in the old days, but this will 'ave spectacles out of hours – coves'll pay good money if it's promoted well, and if I can get the gentry in through the doors, there could be a fortune in it." Jem's overstated accent was receding as his enthusiasm grew.

"So where do I fit in?"

"I want to stage an extravanganza, see", he said, thrusting the program at me. Its lurid red lettering proclaimed "EXTRAVAGANZA!! MR JAMES HARRISON, PROMOTER PAR EXCELLENCE, PRESENTS A GALAXY OF THE BRIGHTEST STARS OF THE RING, PAST AND PRESENT, TO CELEBRATE HIS ILLUSTRIOUS CAREER AND HIS RETIREMENT!!"

"You were one of me brightest young stars. There's many as will remember Sherridan House, with the fastest left hook in the business, flooring Ted Draker who had fifty pounds on your weight. Also, if just a _hint_ got out that the great Sherlock Holmes was fighting at my premises, it'ud be the greatest hook for the toffs and their dough since the Lord Byron went to Jacksons' – bigger, as you'd be no cissy-boy poet!"

It was on the tip of my tongue to indignantly decline the generous offer, when Watson, whose upper lip had been lengthening throughout this speech, struck in for me.

"Really, Jem, I don't think Holmes is fit to resume his career as a pugilist. His health has been sorely tried of late, and I doubt his reflexes are what they were when he was twenty one." He spoke with a slightly amused complacency, which immediately riled me.

"Speaking as my pet physician again, Doctor?" I asked, with asperity. In the last few weeks, it seemed I had barely ceased to play the role of Watson's private patient, and his cosseting had been goading me beyond endurance.

"Come, Holmes, you know it to be the truth. You have not been eating well of late. The Abernetty case has left you exhausted, and do not think I am unaware you continue to indulge in further habits you should not. And I don't see you dodging and weaving with that knee still not fully recovered. I noticed you limping as severely as me during the damp weather last week. You risk injuring your health still further if you endanger yourself against a pugilist in strict training in the ring."

"I beg your pardon, John. I did not realise Sherry was not in health." Jem's voice took on a hushed solicitousness which was even more infuriating than Watson's pomposity.

"When you two have finished, I am not on my death bed, nor in my dotage. You do not need to whisper in my presence."

"I am not saying you are, Holmes. Indeed nobody is capable of greater physical feats that yourself when the need arises." Oh good lord, the reasonable tones. I hate the reasonable tones most of all. "I am merely saying that you have been running yourself down of late, and that no good could come of putting your constitution under further strain, and that meeting a hungry young prize fighter in the ring comes under the category of foolish and reckless".

"I disagree, Watson. Experience counts in pugilism. And my reflexes are not slower than they were at twenty one – if anything, they are honed." I was aware I sounded pettish as I muttered this last, and the knowledge made me angrier still.

"So you think you could do it, Sherry?" asked Jem, eagerly, his earlier concern smothered as he smelt largesse.

"I beg you will not, Holmes. It is madness."

My intended refutation withered on my tongue. My ire with Watson overcame my common sense, and I heard myself snapping "Of course I could do it. I will do it with pleasure. Oh, do stop bleating Watson. Bring your medical bag and Sal Volatile along if you must, but please endeavour to remember that I am a big boy now."

I would probably have reconsidered the next morning, if poor Watson had not taken it upon himself to convince me to do so. Honestly, for one of the most tactful men of my acquaintance, Watson can be incredibly lacking in tact at times. His pestering hardened my resolve, and out of sheer childish stubbornness, I confirmed I would be fighting. Watson, loyal friend that he was, would have overcome his disapproval sufficiently to accompany me to the bout, bringing his medical bag along. However, I seemed to have regressed into boorish teenager, and declined the bag in juvenile embarrassment at being seen to be coddled in public. I ignored his tight-lipped disapproval as resolutely as I ignored the growing feelings of guilt and unease in my breast. Thus it was I found myself rumbling to my assignation in St James's Street with my stomach roiling heavily, and a slight sense of unreality. I stripped, and duly processed down the central aisle to the ring, trying not to wince at the clumsily veiled hints at my identity, as the crowd cheered and bellowed. And thus it was that I was standing here, trying not to allow my outrage and alarm to show on my face as I realised that Jem had pitted me against his brightest, and biggest, young star of the present day.

We shook hands, then the bell rang for the first round, and we commenced our wary circling.

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_Oh dear. I think Holmes may have bitten off more than he can chew. Would love to hear your reviews!_


	4. Chapter 4

**The Pugilist, the Promoter, the Detective, and the Doctor**

Chapter 4

My opponents' nickname was the Flying Scotsman. Jem had decided he should be Scottish, in view of his red hair, the catchiness of the title, and the fact that he was as enormous, fast and potentially devastating as an express train. He suddenly lunged at me with all the momentum his name suggested, and I was immediately on the defensive. Iron fist after iron fist battered into my frantically blocking forearms, and I narrowly avoided being trapped on the ropes. The fight almost ended there, but somehow I ducked under his guard, and was back weaving in the centre of the ring. I was careful to not come too much in his range again, and was able to deflect some of his blows more effectively, putting him off balance and throwing a few hard jabs myself. He was breathing hard and sweating. I was gratified to see it, as my own chest was heaving with exertion, and my eyes stung with the salt poured into them. I was grateful I had thought to have my hair trimmed, as it was now plastered to my forehead but not obscuring my vision.

Our circling was slower now, more purposeful, wary and respectful yet infinitely aggressive. We closed for a second time, and my knowledge of the martial arts served me well, as several times I covertly almost overbalanced my opponent, but I was taking some heavy blows. I found myself longing for the bell to announce the end of the round, and perhaps my concentration wavered slightly, as I found myself pinioned against the ropes, whilst again blows rained down upon me. I braced myself, and managed to bear his attack downwards, idiotically trusting a man raised in the brutal world of prize fighting would not take the opportunity of aiming an illegal blow. The savage uppercut landed squarely in my groin, and in an instant, all the world was pain.

I appeared to be kneeling on the canvas, in a ridiculous position, clawing in a most undignified way at my anatomy and dry retching violently. At first, I could hear nothing over the ringing in my ears, but as my hearing returned, I heard the boos and catcalls and cries of "FOUL!" from those who had bet on me. The referee was berating the Flying Scotsman, who stood looking sulkily furious and defiant, itching for another opportunity to inflict damage. The bell rang for the end of the round, and, unsurprisingly, it went my opponents' way, despite the foul. Somehow, I was in my seat in my corner, and Jem's assistant was passing me a block of ice wrapped in a towel. Ignoring the sniggers from the crowd, I clutched the ice to my groin, trying to overcome the dreadful nausea. My ears are particularly sensitive, and it was at this point that I was somehow able to isolate a snide, drawling, upper-class voice declaring from the audience "Look at him – finished. He'll never stand up for the next round". I was suddenly drenched in furious rage, my vision seemed clouded by a red mist, and I leapt to my feet, oblivious to the ills of my poor ravaged corpus. Striking my bound fists together, I prepared to meet the Scotsman again.

The next two rounds went one apiece. I had taken any number of heavy blows. My head was bound to prevent the blood from a burst eyebrow from blinding me. As I sat on my seat again, I felt lightheaded as I tried to draw sufficient air into my heaving chest – it no longer seemed to be moving properly. Now would have been well beyond the sensible time to concede the battle, but a dull, burning rage and sense of pride were forcing me to use every last iota of effort. I staggered to my feet as the bell sounded for the next round. The roars of the crowd echoed meaninglessly, filling my ears. Nothing existed save this battle. The Scotsman was unsteady also, almost blown, and was letting his guard drop a little. However, he looked less done-in than me, and I knew if it was a straight matter of slogging, I would lose. I needed to entrap him. My left knee, injured in a chase after a recalcitrant felon, had been troubling me. I now exaggerated that limp. I allowed my left arm to drift and waver, and opened up my left side to attack. The Flying Scotsman took the bait, and aimed a monumental blow at that side. I rapidly brought my arm up to block, to knock him sideways, carried under his own momentum; there was a snapping sound like a dry twig as my arm absorbed the force of the blow, but I was already putting all my weight and strength behind a straight right to the jaw. He dropped like a stone, and I listened as the countdown drew me in slow motion to the end of my fight; "10...9...8..."..... I hoped I wouldn't fall down myself before one was reached... "...7...6..."... the crowd were joining in, and for the first time I was more than peripherally aware of the furious commotion... "FIVE... FOUR... THREEEEEE... TWOOOOO... WWW-ONE...IT'S A KNOCKOUT!" My arm (thankfully not that used for the block) was snatched and held up in the air as I was declared the winner. I think at that time, it was all that was keeping me upright. Jem appeared, beaming, red-faced in his best, flashy suit, and wrung my hand vigorously, pumping it up and down, and saying over and over "Fantastic fight, Sherry! Wonderful stuff!" I was invited to join the post-fight revelry, a lavish spread laid on for the patrons, but I realised I would not be able to stay vertical for long, and all I could think of was crawling back to Baker Street. I muttered some platitudes, then escaped through the rear exit.

I struck out for a cab rank, but the cold night air seemed to recall me to my senses, and it was as if every injury my abused body had sustained rushed to my awareness all at once. The appalling pain in my groin, the throbbing in my probably broken arm, and a fire in my chest, that constricted my breathing as effectively as an iron band. I almost sobbed with the agony of it. I managed to stay upright for a few paces, desperately trying to make for the safety of a hansom, but it was to no avail. My legs seemed to turn to water beneath me, my head spun, and I was falling to my knees, then to my side to lie in the gutter. The nausea rushed up to meet me, and I vomited where I lay, seeing to my horror the blood my stomach contents contained – what dreadful internal injuries had I sustained? I made another attempt to at least get myself away from my vulnerable position lying unprotected in the street, before I fell victim to one of the swarm of petty thieves who followed a fight like flies around excrement. I couldn't move. A pathetic wave of self pity swept over me, and I felt my eyes sting with tears, as my semi-conscious self realised my complete helplessness. It was at this ignominious moment that I heard the sound of footsteps, and a shadow fell over me...

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_Ouch! Should have listened to Watson, Holmes. Now what happens? Reviews still welcome, if you can stomach it after all that violence._

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	5. Chapter 5

**The Pugilist, the Promoter, the Detective, and the Doctor**

Chapter 5

I braced myself for a kick or two, or for my pockets to be rifled as the figure approached. I even wondered vaguely if I was about to be murdered, and in one of those strange mood swings that can accompany serious injury or danger, I almost laughed at the incongruity of Sherlock Holmes, the Great Detective, dying in this fashion. Then the figure spoke.

"Holmes?"

"Watson!" Relief washed over me, rapidly followed by shame at being discovered in this position. I turned my face towards my friend, and he swore angrily.

"Good God, man, it looks even worse than it did in the ring."

"You were watching?"

"Of course I was watching. I couldn't allow you to walk into this situation without support. Unfortunately, though, I foolishly conceded to your wishes and did not bring my medical bag with me". I was sincerely moved by the latest evidence of my friend's never-ceasing loyal and forgiving nature. Shame was also creeping over me, both at the position I had placed myself in, and my treatment of Watson. Of course, he hadn't responded as I deserved, by turning his back and allowing me to reap my rewards. He had swallowed his resentment, and acted in my best interests just the same. His medical instincts must have had him in agonies during that bout. He had not intervened – he must have known it would be useless – but had overcome his pain, and waited until I needed him, avoiding a scene which may have been humiliating for me. I reached out, and grasped his hand with my (relatively) good hand.

"I do not deserve a friend like you, Watson. I really am very sorry."

"Do not mention it, Holmes. You always have done your own thing, and I should know better than to lecture you" he replied warmly.

"You were quite right in this instance. The evidence is before you", I said, with an attempt at grim humour, "I am afraid I do not think I can stand. I am also very much afraid that I have damaged myself internally – I have just experienced a considerable haematemesis". I was not quite able to keep the tremor out of my voice at this last.

"If you are unable to deduce where the blood came from, I fear you are losing your reasoning abilities. I saw you spit out a tooth myself, you have taken a hefty blow to the nose, and your lip is torn. You must have swallowed half a pint of blood, and nothing is more irritating to the stomach" he declared, with bluff medical briskness. "Now, we must set about getting you home. I took the liberty of ordering a cab to wait for me at the front of the building." Watson seemed to sense my hesitation at the thought of being carried to the cab, in full view of the crowd who would be milling about following the fight. "If I assist you to this doorway here, we can sit you upright - " _prop me upright, more correctly, _I thought sourly, as he helped me accomplish this feat " – and I shall summon the cab to fetch you. Take this." He thrust his service revolver into my hand, and jogged off around the corner. He returned promptly, the hansom trotting beside him. With all possible gentleness, and his surprising strength, he lifted me into the cab, giving me no more than a long look when I shamefacedly confessed my suspicion that my arm was broken.

I had reason to remember, and pity, those soldiers who spoke of the worst part of their ordeal on the battlefield being the transportation in the notorious wagons into which the wounded were slung, and how the well-sprung ambulances of the French had been the envy of the troops. The hansom clattered and juddered across the uneven street. I thought suddenly of Watson, severely injured in a foreign land, with the threat of horrific murder by disembowelment haunting him, slung over the back of a pack horse, and then enduring a long journey in the infernal wagons under the scorching heat of the Afghan sun, and I would have felt very humble, were I not so distracted by the pain besetting me at every lurch. I would have slithered onto the floor from weakness, but Watson drew me towards him and supported me, with my head on his chest and his arms around me. When we reached Baker Street, he asked the cabby to help me upstairs. Mrs Hudson let out a shriek of horror at the sight of me, and assumed I had been attacked in the street. Watson did not disillusion her in front of the cabby, but, when I was laid on my own bed and the cabby paid off, I confessed that my injuries were, although not entirely self inflicted, certainly avoidable. She said nothing more, but gave me the kind of look usually reserved for a child, caught biscuit barrel in hand, before he has had a chance to help himself. I felt withered.

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_Somebody is in disgrace again. At least he's not pretending he's dead this time._


	6. Chapter 6

**The Pugilist, the Promoter, the Detective, and the Doctor**

Chapter 6

Mrs Hudson bustled off to fetch hot water and towels, whilst Watson helped me divest myself of my outer clothing. He then began to minister to my ills. He diagnosed a fractured radius, and bound and splinted my arm, telling me it could have been much worse. The pain and pressure in my chest were almost unendurable by this time, and, on examination, Watson gasped and paled. "You have a flail segment, Holmes. Three of your ribs are fractured in two places, and the whole section is moving in the opposite direction to the rest of your chest. This is a very serious injury – you must have a significant pulmonary contusion underlying it." He was thoughtful for a moment. "This must have been a monumental blow, Holmes. I would not normally expect to see such significant injury from a mere fist."

"What are you implying?"

"Do you think the fight was entirely fair? Well, obviously it was not; that low blow in the first round certainly didn't follow Queensbury Rules."

"I had no reason to think otherwise, other than the low blow and the sheer size of that Leviathan." Speaking was painful, a grating effort against my injured chest.

"I don't understand how you managed to remain standing, let alone fighting."

"I think the injury occurred towards the end."

"Perhaps it made you lightheaded – maybe that is why you didn't call a halt before proceedings became critical."

"You are too charitable, Doctor" I wheezed, feeling ashamed again.

"Not at all. You will need strong analgesia for this. I will start you on a moderate dose of Morphine. It is regrettable..." He tailed off, slightly red in the face. Indeed, he did not need to say any more, as the spectre of my addictive propensities loomed large. "We must be cautious with the dosage" he continued, finding his thread and his crisp clinical manner again. "The danger is respiratory depression, and you will already undoubtedly have respiratory compromise from the injury." The dose of morphine he injected into my arm brought blessed relief, but the usual euphoria was absent. I imagine the pain attenuated its effects.

Watson continued to tend to my hurts. He placed tight strapping around my torso, to avoid the movement of the flail segment. He placed stitches in the cut on my brow, apologising for the scar it would leave. Two other injuries required suturing. It was whilst he was engaged upon this task that raised voices came from downstairs. I recognised the far from dulcet tones of Jem, and the shrill warbling of Mrs Hudson in full indignant flow. Watson gritted his teeth.

"If that man comes up here, I shall knock his teeth down his throat, prize-winner or no."

"Doctor, think of your patient."

"That is precisely what I am doing. However, I suppose you are correct. Perhaps I shall defer until I have finished with you."

"Thank you. I think he is coming up."

Sure enough, the large and unpretty countenance of Jem hove into view. If looks could kill, the look on Watson's face would have laid him out dead in an instant.

"KNUCKLE-DUSTERS!" roared our visitor, oblivious to Watson's fury, so caught up was he in his own. "That...that young _animal_ had KNUCKLE-DUSTERS under 'is bindings! Since the third round! I tell you, I laid him out flat then flogged him round the room with me riding crop, and he never put up a fight, just cringed, an' cried an' begged fer me to forgive 'im! Knuckle-dusters! An' in me first match of me retirement" he added rather incongruously, suddenly seeming to deflate as some of his fury left him. He sank to the chair in the corner of the room, his posture slumped despairingly. He seemed to remember our presence then, and looked up, anguish written plain in his face. "I'm so sorry, Sherry. So very sorry. I swear I had no idea until afterwards, when I tried to wake 'im up, an' I felt 'em. 'E'd taken a fat purse to take you down, an' the bastard what paid him felt 'e wasn't lookin' enough of a dead cert. I thought 'e'd die of the shame when 'e knew I knew. Are you awright? I 'ate to think of the damage that bastarding brute could do wiv metal in 'is gloves."

"He has a serious chest injury" answered Watson, still cold, but obviously somewhat appeased by the promoter's obvious distress. "He is likely to bedbound for a fortnight at the least". I was rather alarmed by this pronouncement, although Watson later told me that almost half of the similar injuries he had seen had been fatal, although these were on the battlefield, and not entirely comparable. Jem still appeared distraught.

"'E'll never work for me again, Sherry. 'E'll never work for anyone else what matters either if I have anythin' to say about it. Shame though, rarely seen a kid with promise like him, it's a waste to see 'im hodd carryin' again". The sly gleam of the promoter shone in his eyes again for a moment.

"Do not judge him too harshly. Perhaps if he is allowed to make amends now, he will not yield to temptation in the future."

"Now who is being charitable, Holmes?"

"I can afford to be, Watson. I won, against an elephant with knuckle-dusters", I grinned, but the little bout of crowing soon had me wincing again.

"I can't believe you didn't feel 'em – 'ow did you not realise, matey?"

"When somebody that big hits you that hard, you expect it to hurt."

"Well, 'e's 'ad 'is comeuppance, being KO'ed in front of all that crowd. I know what else I'll do, if you're agreeable. I'll send 'im round 'ere to apologise in person. 'E's like a schoolboy, 'e'll twist 'imself in knots. 'E's not a _bad_ person, you see. He never thought you'd carry on if you were seriously injured, like."

"I shall look forward to it...if Watson is in agreement" I added, hearing the little exclamation come from him, and feeling I owed it to him to show respect for his opinion.

"I think he deserves a good deal of chastisement, but if it helps him feel properly shamed and you are willing, I think it is not a bad idea. Perhaps I shall knock _his_ teeth down his throat – but only if he promises not to hit me back."

"Very well. And now, Jem, you are interrupting the good doctor's ministrations and my rest. I shall see you again when I am in a slightly less delicate state." Watson ushered Jem out of the room, and I closed my eyes in exhaustion.

The patching up then continued. My groin could not be ignored. Watson lifted the waistband of my undershorts, peered downwards, then winced dramatically, and gave a low whistle. "Ooof, ouch, my God, Holmes! You look as if you're smuggling an aubergine!"

"Thank-you. That's what they all say." Our laughter hurt me, but eased some of the tension between us. I averted my eyes, feeling my cheeks flaming in embarrassment as Watson examined my private parts.

"I think it is merely a haematoma – oops, sorry – I can feel the cord above your right testicle, and there does not appear to be any torsion. Hopefully the underlying – do try to keep still, Holmes, there's a good chap – the underlying testicle is not damaged, but it will be necessary to drain off some of the excess haematoma to relieve the pressure." This was the most alarming prospect so far, and I stared at him in horror, and disbelief at his sanguinity.

"I can resign myself to never siring children, Watson. I think I may elect to keep the bruising rather than allow a needle near my....OWwwww!" I wailed, as Watson overbore my protests.

"The alternative witty repartee is you would like me to remove the pain but keep the swelling. I have heard them all before", murmured Watson, most of his attention on his task, which, mercifully, was brief. I had to admit, I was a good deal more comfortable now that the throbbing had settled. The most unpleasant part of the ordeal over, Watson helped me to wash, changed the sheets above and beneath me, and helped prop me up against my pillows. Refreshed by a draught of cold water, I felt almost human again, until I caught sight of Watson's face in the dressing table mirror. He had momentarily allowed his reassuring, competent bedside mask to drop; grief, worry and hurt were etched strongly into his features. Knowing the source of these emotions, I felt very inhuman indeed.

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_Ah, but we think that makes you more human, Holmes. To err is human, after all. Thanks to those people I can see on my profile reading my story – I'd much appreciate you opinions._


	7. Chapter 7

**The Pugilist, the Promoter, the Detective, and the Doctor**

Chapter 7

The next few days were destined hold some of the most unpleasant moments in my memory. The pulmonary contusion I had sustained was breaking down, leaving me feeling as if I was half drowning in the fluid it produced, and coughing up blood. Coughing hurt in several places all at once, yet Watson told me it was to be encouraged, to clear my lung field. I craved sleep, but what with coughing, and the uncomfortably tight strapping, I could only achieve it in short bursts, and spent much of the night awake with my own dismal thoughts. I had sustained a heavy blow to the kidneys, and, as I passed the blood clots that were the result of this, the insight I received into the condition Watson termed "renal colic" gave me a profound sympathy for those individuals in the habit of regularly passing kidney stones - Watson informed me this pain was often considered worse than childbirth, although he suggested I never repeat this fact in female company for fear of giving offense.

My mouth tasted foul, and I realised the knocked-out molar had left its root behind. As my toothache increased, my condition became too precarious to allow of a general anaesthetic, so my interview with my dentist was all the more ghastly. Much to my mortification, I found myself snivelling a little after he left, from pain, exhaustion and lack of sleep, misery, and guilt for bringing all this trouble on myself and on Watson, who had barely left my room, and was sporting dark shadows under his eyes and a gaunt expression. Rather that berating me as an abject coward, Watson put his arm around my shoulders and made soothing noises, which should have made me feel worse, but actually was really rather soothing.

Watson measured out the effusion in my chest twice daily by percussing my back, and I could read his anxiety in the tensing of his palm as he laid it upon me. My temperature was labile, sometimes spiking as high as 104F, and, as Watson peered wistfully into my mouth after each examination, I could see he sincerely hoped my tooth abscess was the focus and not my chest. He thought he was concealing the medical journal he was clandestinely perusing when he believed me asleep, but my dressing table mirror was again helpful and I was able to see it was on the subject of draining effusion and empyema. I could make out the phrases "scalpel", "blunt dissection", "rubber tubing, thoroughly sterilised" and "underwater seal", and was grateful Watson did not want to discuss the topic as it sounded both sinister and gruesome.

I was bed-bound, as Watson had predicted, of course, only rising to use the commode – I insisted on this, as I felt I could not endure any further imposition upon my friend. I could not play the violin, thanks to my broken arm, and the inevitable concussion made reading merely a rapid means of making my head swim. Boredom ensued, but not, thankfully, the blackest depression such as I had been prey to on previous occasions. My concern for Watson was the distraction I needed. Since I had noticed his worn face that first day, I had sensed a sadness about him, and could not bear to add to it.

Furthermore, not all about those days was bleak and dreadful. It was a strange interlude. Our normal rules of intercourse seemed to be suspended, and there were days which took on a dreamlike quality, times where I almost felt I had regressed into childhood. Lying half asleep in a darkened room and quietly burning with fever, taking reassurance from a the sound of a familiar voice and the feel of the cold compress against my forehead. Lying in a morphine induced haze, listening to him talk, or even just read aloud from the latest yellow-backed novel if I was not up to the task of conversation. The changing of the sheets, the night-time drafts of medicine with the room dimly lit by candlelight. Nightmares about drowning or suffocating, terminated by a firm hand on my wrist and a comforting voice. It was not a long interlude, but the unfamiliarity of relying on another person for support both physical and emotional impacted upon me profoundly. I felt at liberty to allow Watson to glimpse my gratitude and my utmost appreciation for him as a doctor, and as a friend.

In lieu of other occupation, we had talked. Often, when I couldn't spare the breath, Watson talked more than me. I asked him about Afghanistan, and what he told me made me shudder, for his suffering, and to think how nearly we had come to my never meeting him. He told me about his family, about his sorry brother, and the little sister who had died barely out of infancy. About when he had been in a similar case to myself, aged twelve, following challenging the sixteen year old school bully to a fist fight after a smaller boy was virtually tortured by the young brute. Watson had emerged much the worse for wear, but the bully had been expelled.

"He went into the army, where I believe he made a good account of himself in the end", he mused.

"I am afraid my injuries have been acquired in a less heroic cause."

"Mmm". He murmured, noncommittally, changing the subject.

I went so far as to reveal details of my childhood to Watson, but I am naturally reticent, and provided little detail. He did not pry any further, but I felt exorcised all the same.

I knew Watson would never violate my privacy by dwelling upon my deviation from the emotionless creature he had portrayed me to be - certainly no word of these events would ever appear in the Strand. Afterwards, he would act as if the whole episode had never happened - or at least, not the more personal moments - other than perhaps a reference to my foolhardiness in sustaining my injuries - or a non-poignant crude jest about certain of those injuries. There was no doubt that something had changed though. I have allowed few souls to become close to mine; Watson understood, and knew his was sincerely amongst that number. His acceptance of this fact made him permanently more secure in my presence, as if he fully appreciated none of my contrary humours or biting comments would have the weight of true disdain behind them, and thus no power to wound. Yet there was no Road to Damascus moment, merely two intimate friends talking and not talking, entirely comfortable with each other.

Thus we whiled away time until I was feeling well enough to don my dressing gown and make my way to the living room sofa. I stared longingly at my pipe, but knew Watson would not hear of my exposing my recovering lung to smoke just yet. I was fit enough to make a desultory examination of the newspapers, and Watson was reading a novel. I was on edge. The change of scene had shattered the peaceful idyll, and my complacency. Reality had returned, and forced me to contemplate my behaviour prior to my incapacitation. Suddenly, I could contain myself no longer.

"Watson!"

"Yes, Holmes?" he answered, looking up in surprise at the urgency of my tone.

"I have been an intolerable swine to you. I can hardly endure your lack of reproach and your kindness any longer. I have received these admittedly severe injuries through my own folly and pride, despite your entirely justified warnings. I think I did it partly to goad you, when you were considering only my best interests, and in the knowledge that my conduct must distress you. It was unforgiveable, yet I feel I must beg your forgiveness, my dear Watson, and thank you from the bottom of my inadequate heart for the care and attention you have lavished on my undeserving self - to the detriment of your own health, I might add. You have lost approximately four pounds, and there are dark circles beneath your eyes following your undertaking an uncomplaining night-time vigil when you would have been most justified in leaving me to my own devices and pain."

"My dear fellow! This is really not necessary!"

"It is entirely necessary, Doctor."

"But I know myself how infuriating a busybody can be, constantly whispering unasked for pleas for caution into an unwilling ear. I blame myself for your acquiescing to the fight. I think you would not have done so if you were not feeling browbeaten." I stared at him, unable to believe he would think such a thing (forgetting I had labelled it "All Watson's Fault" before my bout.

"That might have been admissible were I a schoolboy, but I am far from it now. No, it will not do. You advice is never bestowed injudiciously (although your timing may sometimes be off). You really must yield, you know, and confess you were right all along."

"Very well. I shall confess it on this occasion. Although you could hardly have predicted your reception would involve a metallic weapon capable of inflicting such damage."

"There is something which is predictable in its capacity for damage, however." I said, rising slowly from my chair. I fetched the bottle of cocaine solution and the morocco case with its neat hypodermic needle and syringe. "I have ignored your excellent advice once too often, Doctor." I declared, looking him squarely in the eye. "It is time I heeded it." I stoked the fire, and threw the morocco case, and its contents into the heart of it. "The glass and metal will not burn, but the gesture, I think, is symbolic. Please dispose of this for me, Watson." I held out the cocaine bottle, and he accepted it slowly. "In the spirit of honesty with which I find myself infused, I must confess I will find withdrawing from the drug most trying, and may well have to presume upon your assistance again.

"You would be most welcome, Holmes," cried Watson, leaping to his feet and wringing my hand in both of his, his eyes sparkling with emotion. "It has always been my privilege to assist you."

"Well," I continued, struggling to speak through the lump in my throat, "I see no reason why you should be called upon to endure a sulky, boorish consulting detective whilst confined in a townhouse in London, with yellow fog billowing outside the windows. You have been sifting longingly through pamphlets for the Devonshire coast and the Lake District for weeks now, and you always finish by shaking your head sadly, and glancing regretfully towards the drawer where your chequebook is kept. The problem has a simple solution. I need clean air to convalesce, and you require a rural idyll to retain your sanity and refresh your soul. I trust you would have no objections if we used the proceeds from Sir Gerald Fuller's case to purchase a much needed holiday for two young Londoners in the location of your choice?" Watson's delight was plain to see, and I sensed that the aura of sadness about him was soon to be dispelled.

"No objections at all Holmes! I should be overjoyed."

*****************_FIN******************_


End file.
